


And They Were Roommates! or, Vignettes From The Cohabitation of The Demon Crowley and Angel Aziraphale

by Eiiri



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But everything's fine, Cohabitation, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Cute, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M, The Bently, Vignettes, after the end, and they were roommates!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiiri/pseuds/Eiiri
Summary: Exactly what the title says.Just a bunch of cute moments of Crowley and Aziraphale living together.





	1. Introduction

Sometime after the end of the world and its subsequent re-beginning, the demon Crowley and angel Aziraphale came to the decision that they should move in together, on the grounds that they rather liked one another, and that the vast majority of their reasons for not cohabitating had recently gone up in smoke—some quite literally so. Following a fair bit of discussion and arguing back and forth, they agreed that Aziraphale was much more attached to his place of residence than Crowley was to his own—and, they both understood, that Crowley also had a certain fondness for the bookshop, not that he was presently prepared to admit it—so Crowley divested himself of his flat and moved in with Aziraphale above the shop, bringing a great many potted plants with him.

From that point, the angel and the demon set out on the absolute adventure that is living with another person.


	2. Sleep

“What do you mean you don't sleep?” Crowley asked, aghast, very nearly dropping the book he had picked up to read the back of.

“Well, why would I?” Aziraphale countered with a kind of defensive bafflement. “I don't have to—”

“You don't have to _eat,_ either, but that's never once stopped you. You have a bed!” He gestured through the open door at the furniture in question. “Why have a bed if you don't sleep?”

“Because...that's what you put in a bedroom,” Aziraphale hedged.

Crowley made a sound of irritation in his throat, tossed the book in his hand on the nearest horizontal surface, and grabbed Aziraphale by the wrist to tug him across the room. “Come on, we're taking a _nap_.”

“But,” Aziraphale protested weakly, “it seems like such an awful waste of time.”

“We're immortal, we have time.”

“And it's such a strange thing to do—just, putting your body on a shelf to, to hallucinate pointlessly for hours.”

Crowley looked at him askance. “First of all, you have at least twenty books about dream analysis and all that rot downstairs. Second, yes, it's great fun, it makes being awake suck a lot less afterward, and you have the shelf so you might as well use it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began exasperatedly, but stopped because the demon had turned with a huff to face him and lowered his head just enough for his sunglasses to slip down his nose so he could look over them.

“Please,” Crowley said softly. And Aziraphale had no defense whatsoever against that, so the two of them lay down for a nap.

“You're awfully clingy, aren't you?” Aziraphale noted, laying somewhat stiffly on his back, staring at the ceiling with Crowley twined bodily around him like some kind of—well, like a snake.

“Go to sleep,” Crowley mumbled with contented gruffness into Aziraphale's shoulder.

 

Their so-called nap wound up lasting all night, which was probably Crowley's intention in the first place. Aziraphale woke to pale post-dawn sunlight filtering in through the sheers about as ethereally as anything on Earth ever managed, and to Crowley, already awake, propped on one elbow, grinning at him fondly.

“Good morning, angel.”

“Good morning,” Aziraphale returned in barely more than a whisper with the tiniest nod of his head. A heartbeat later, he couldn't help but smile back.


	3. Pajamas

Following a spontaneous decision that, among Things Humans Do Because They Have To, sleeping was just as good and worthwhile as eating, the angel Aziraphale familiarized himself with the concept of pajamas. After extensive research, he selected and acquired what he had determined to be the best pajamas available on earth: two fuzzy onesies in the likenesses of animals that had unfortunately not survived as species to see the existence of rainbows. One of them was a mottled-pastel unicorn for himself, the other a jewel tone dragon with twee little wings in the back, for his roommate. They both had hoods.


	4. Plants

As previously mentioned, when the demon Crowley moved into the flat above the bookshop, he brought with him a significant number of houseplants. His general demeanor in caring for these plants—though “caring” may be too strong a word—was that of a particularly irascible drill sergeant toward his troops, or perhaps that of someone who never should have become a teacher but did anyway toward their pupils, last hour on a Friday shortly before the end of term. Unfortunately for the plants, they couldn't tell that this was all an act.

Aziraphale could tell, but he also knew better than to say so. He did, once, look up from filing his business taxes while Crowley was hissing threats through his teeth at a spindly little nondescript plant that was apparently refusing to bloom, and mentioned, casually, “You know, I've heard that plants respond best when spoken to kindly. Perhaps you should give it a go, just to see if it makes a difference.”

“What? No,” Crowley scoffed, straightening up and turning around. “No—don't be ridiculous. This works. This always works. They obey me.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale agreed, turning the page in one of his sales ledgers, “but, you know, sometimes things go better when done out of a genuine desire to see someone happy, rather than out of fear of—”

“Shhhssh shhsh shush, shush, shut up. Do not be putting _ideas_ in their, their—plants don't have heads—in their chloroplasts!” Crowley wheeled on the spindly little plant again and jabbed a finger at it. “I will feed you to a goat if you don't get your act together, you mark my words.” He stalked out, calling, “I'll tear you in half and feed you to _two_ goats!” over his shoulder just before the door slammed.

With a sigh, Aziraphale capped his pen. He got up, went over to the bloomless little plant, and picked it up, cradling its blue-enameled bowl of a flower pot in his hands. “You really shouldn't pay him any mind. I don't know why, but he always seems to pretend to hate the things he's fondest of. Did it to me for _ages_.” He brushed away a bit of dirt clinging to the plant's stem and set it back in its spot. “He doesn't mean his threats, either. That ficus he said he was going to burn now lives in a cafe down the street. And for what it's worth, I think you're lovely.” He looked around at the other two dozen or so plants in the room. “I think you're all lovely.”

 

A week or so later, Crowley walked up to Aziraphale, sour faced,and shoved a pound store mister bottle into his hands. “Go water the orchid; it likes you.”

“I—what?”

“The orchid. Great purple flowers, blue pot. It _likes_ you. Go water the bloody thing.”


	5. Television

In addition to his plants, Crowley had brought a television when he'd moved in with Aziraphale. Neither of them watched it much, but when they did, it was usually together, in their onesie pajamas, with Crowley sprawled most of the way across the old fashioned sofa to lounge against Aziraphale, more or less in the angel's lap, one or both of them nursing a cup of tea or a glass or wine, depending.

If Crowley picked the show, Aziraphale had wine.

“You're responsible for this, aren't you?” Aziraphale sniffed unhappily. They were watching some horrid show that was allegedly meant to help people find love, but that was, in actual fact, doing nothing but turning each and every individual into a manipulative, calculating, emotionally fragile, backstabbing mess with even worse trust issues than they'd started with. “I don't think you'd be so terribly gleeful about it otherwise.”

“Hm? Oh, broadly speaking, yes.” Crowley felt around for the wine bottle to refill their glasses. “Had a couple chats with this fellow named, oh, I don't remember, Allen something, back in—must've been the lateforties? Wasn't long after that whole mess where I had to go into a  _church_ of all places to rescue you from the Nazis. Started off as a radio thing, moved to television about as soon as television existed, but it hardly went anywhere after that. So much of what they were making was so...wholesome.” He grimaced and took a sip of the red. “But then—then!—in the nineties, these humans, they took the whole concept and ran with it. Never looked back. Especially the Americans. And the Japanese. Japanese reality shows are bonkers.”

Aziraphale gave a short sound of acknowledgment, emptied his glass rather more quickly than he'd meant to, and plucked the bottle from the crook of Crowley's arm to refill it again while one of the young ladies on the showran off in tears, a camera following her. “Can't you...take it back?”

“Way out of my hands now,” Crowley chuckled.

“This is _awful_ , though. She's genuinely distraught, you can see she's heartbroken, this is so—it's terribly invasive.”

“Eh,” Crowley shrugged, “things like this have been airing for _years_ , she knew what she was signing on for.”

Aziraphale hummed shortly, unconvinced.

The show cut away to another of the young ladies giving quite an impassioned telling off to the young man responsible for the present tears and heartbreak. He laughed her off with an extremely rude and misogynistic comment, she threw a flip flop at him, and in the process of batting it away he stumbled over his own feet and fell into the pool.

In unison, both angel and demon cringed.

“He deserved that,” Crowley noted.

“He most certainly did.”


	6. The Bentley in a Churchyard

One late autumn evening, a police officer found herself looking across a church parking lot at an honestly gorgeous antique Bentley parked in the farthest corner of the lot, rocking faintly on its suspension with its windows fogged up. She sighed and set off across the gravel with her hands shoved in her pockets against the chill, wondering quite a few things. Firstly, she was wondering why anyone would ever choose to make out in their car in the parking lot of a  _church_. Second, she was wondering if they were teenagers. This sort of thing was usually teenagers. If it _was_ teenagers, she was wondering where the hell they got such a car. She hoped it wasn't stolen. That would be a nightmare. The paperwork alone….She also couldn't help but wonder, idly, just how much a car like that was worth. She wouldn't have been surprised if it was more than her house.

As she approached, she could just hear muffled voices from inside the car and faintly see human shapes moving through the condensation. The car gave a particular lurch and a hand smacked palm-flat against the inside of one of the windows, leaving a slightly smudged print through the beaded moisture. Very _Titanic_.

Resignedly, she tapped on the driver's side window. Inside the car went very quiet and still, then with the slow jerkiness of a hand crank, the window rolled down. A man—a _grown man—_ peered up at her with an innocent sort of grin she didn't buy for a second. The fact he was just casually wearing some of those ridiculous contacts her niece used for cosplay wasn't helping his case.

“Hello, officer,” he crooned. “Something the matter?”

Behind him, another man with the exact fashion sense as her uncle's _best friend_ from college was hastily fixing his buttons and tie and absolutely not looking at her or the damp spot in his lap.

“You can't park here,” she said flatly.

“Of course not, sorry 'bout that. Our mistake.” The man smiled apologetically—that seemed even faker than the innocence. “We'll just be on our way, then.” He rolled up the window, wiped a clear spot on the windshield with his sleeve, turned on the car and drove away, Queen's Don't Stop Me Now blaring on the radio.

The police officer let out a long breath, shaking her head as she watched them go, and mumbled to herself, “What are you doing, mate? It's not even June….”


	7. What Was Actually Happening

Of course, what it seemed to this human police officer was happening in the Bentley in the church parking lot was not at all what was actually happening.

Crowley had not wanted to go to the church, for obvious reasons, but Aziraphale had insisted that he simply _had_ to deliver this book order to the buyer himself, she had asked so nicely, she was elderly and couldn't very well get into London to pick the books up herself, they were a gift for her husband, the vicar—they'd be married sixty-eight years end of November, and surely Crowley could understand how very important it is for a person when they're doing something for someone they've loved for the great majority of their existence on Earth.

“I'd be more inclined for their _next_ anniversary,” Crowley had muttered.

But Aziraphale had glowered, and then he'd _pouted_ , and Crowley found himself driving out to the suburbs despite himself and parking as far away from the blasted little church as he possibly could, his skin crawling the entire time he sat in the car, leaving controversial comments on YouTube videos without watching them while he waited for Aziraphale to conclude his business in the cute little cottage behind the church, which was also on consecrated ground, because of course it was.

The passenger side door finally opened and Aziraphale got in, smiling into a large steaming mug of what smelled like peppermint tea. Crowley stared at him. He took his sunglasses off for greater effect and gestured with them at the mug. “What in Hell's name is that?'

Aziraphale frowned at him. “It's tea, obviously.” He brightened again. “She made the mug! It's a hobby of hers, pottery all over the house. I was admiring them so she gave me—”

“It is an _open_ container of liquid,” Crowley interrupted venomously, “ _in my car_.”

Aziraphale tutted dismissively. “I'm not going to spill it.”

“A cup like that? It would take a miracle not to spill, no lid, it's not even like a bottle—”

“Luckily, I am fully capable of miracles. And so are you.”

Between the steam from the tea and the humidity of their breath, the windows—cool from the evening air outside—were beginning to collect quite a lot of condensation.

“No food in my car!” Crowley lunged for the mug, trying to grab it.

Aziraphale jerked away, keeping the mug out of the demon's reach. The tea sloshed, but miraculously did not spill. “You're going to make me spill it!”

“It won't spill if it's not in my car!” Crowley leaned into Aziraphale, reaching around the angel for the mug.

“It won't spill if you'd just let me drink my tea in peace!” He managed to take a sip before dodging another attempt by Crowley at snatching the mug from him. “Besides, it would really only be a risk at all if you were driving—” he dodged again and planted a hand on Crowley's face to keep him at arms length long enough to get another sip in “—or it would be if you weren't being so unreasonable right now. There's nothing keeping us from sitting right here, sharing this lovely cup of tea, in a perfectly still car, hardly any danger of spilling.”

“Except that you've had me sitting not fifty yards from a church for _over two hours_ while you chatted up the vicar's wife!” Crowley growled.

“That, and I suppose it is within the realm of possibility a vicar's wife could be in the habit of making tea with holy water,” Aziraphale mused.

Crowley recoiled, very nearly throwing himself across the car, wide eyed in terror. He caught himself with one hand on the window.

“Kidding.” Aziraphale grinned wickedly and took a long drink of his tea.

Crowley grabbed the mug away from him, spilling some on the angel as he quickly set it in the floorboard with one hand. With the other hand, he'd seized Aziraphale by the front of the shirt, scrunching his tie and popping his first couple buttons. “That is not funny, you—”

Someone tapped on the driver's side window from the outside and both angel and demon froze. Crowley let go of Aziraphale slowly, took a breath, rolled down his window, and smiled up at the policewoman with all the angelic innocence he could muster, which wasn't a lot.

“Hello, officer,” he crooned. “Something the matter?”

Her eyes flicked to glance behind him, then back to his face. “You can't park here.”

“Of course not, sorry 'bout that. Our mistake.” Crowley attempted an apologetic smile, but it's rather difficult to do  _apologetic_ in the sort of mood Crowley was in. “We'll just be on our way, then.”

He rolled the window back up, wiped the windshield clear with his sleeve, turned on the car—the stereo cut on with the engine and began playing what had been a film soundtrack the week before—and drove out of the lot. “You,” he said sharply over the music, “are in inconsiderate prick.”

 


	8. Roses

The street in London at the corner of which sat a particular specialty book shop was also home to several boutiques, a couple pubs, a butcher, a baker, an artisanal candle shop, a lovely little cafe with a beautiful ficus, and a florist's shop.

The florist's shop was run by a mother and daughter, and it was usually the daughter actually in the shop helping customers. At the tinkling of the bell on the door, she came out of the back, arms full of arrangements her mother had just finished, and saw the owner of the bookshop from up the road standing in front of the table display of potted miniature roses, knuckles to his lips fretfully.

“Hi there,” she said brightly, smiling as she put the fresh arrangements in the refrigerator case. “Can I help you?”

“I, uh, I'm looking for a gift,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah?” She closed the case and stepped over. “What kind of gift?”

“Well, an apology gift, really,” he admitted, “for my, uh, my roommate. He likes plants.”

“Your roommate,” she echoed with a slow nod, glancing at the red rose bush directly in front of him. It had a tiny heart-shaped balloon stuck in it.

“He  _is_ my roommate.”

“Oh, yeah, of course, I wasn't questioning that.”

“It's just a bit complicated, you know. We've known each other a very long time.”

“No, yeah, I totally get it,” she agreed easily. “So, exactly how much trouble are you in?”

Aziraphale deflated slightly. “Quite a bit.”

She hummed, moved around the table and picked up one of the larger pots—it had two rose plants in it, one white one red, trained since they were sprouts to twine around each other so the globe of the topiary was red on one side, white on the other. “How about this?”

“I think that's just right.”

 

Some months later, the florist's daughter looked up at the sound of the chimes to see a man slink in with his hands shovedin thepockets of his skinny jeans, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he drawled reluctantly, “I need an apology gift for my...roommate.”

She paused. “You don't happen to live with the bookseller, do you?”

He paused too, probably blinking behind the dark glasses. “This is where he got the roses.”

“Yup.”

“Fuck.”


	9. Sex

Crowley had taken the unicorn onesie and refused to give it back, so Aziraphale had taken the dragon onesie in retaliation, so they'd wound up in one another's pajamas, on the couch, in front of the television, Crowley's head in Aziraphale's lap, with some movie on that they'd missed the first few minutes of. The film's romance plot had _advanced_ rather quickly.

“Is this supposed to be, scintillating?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing the screen dubiously while the lead actress pealed off her damp shirt.

“Titillating, more like.”

Aziraphale put on a good show of being offended by the demon's crass pun.

A few moments later, as the scene progressed, Aziraphale asked, “Have you ever, you know…?”

He gestured vaguely toward the screen.

“Had sex?” Crowley clarified incredulously.

“Yes.”

Crowley rolled onto his back to look directly up at the angel. “When, exactly, would I ever have had sex? And with whom?”

“I don't know!” Aziraphale huffed. “I don't know what all trouble you've gotten up to in between my seeing you, and you've had plenty of time. I've gone the better part of a century without seeing hide nor hair of you before.”

“If we're thinking of the same century, I was asleep.”

“You were asleep?”

“Yes.”

“The entire time?”

“Well, most of it. I was upset. I woke up a few times and didn't feel any better so I went back to sleep.”

“Why were you…? Nevermind.” Aziraphale shook his head. “Have you though?”

“What?”

“Had sex.”

“Oh.” Crowley grimaced and turned back toward the television. “No. Awful lot of trouble and mess—fluids, and feelings, and euhg.” He took a breath. “Have you?”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale pulled up the hood on his onesie. “I think I'd rather have cake.”

“I'd like cake.”


	10. Kisses

For the great majority of the time they had known each other, which was the great majority of their existence on Earth, the demon Crowley and angel Aziraphale had not been in the habit of making physical contact with one another. This was partly due to social expectations for a significant swath of that history being rather against casual touching, even between friends and spouses, but was much more so due to the two of them just being incredibly awkward.

Trading bodies for a while after the end of the world had eased that a bit. Then they'd moved in together, and it turned out that Crowley was extraordinarily cuddly.

For his part, Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure how to handle this—the cuddles happened, there was really no stopping them even if he'd wanted to, but he didn't know how to respond.

He started to figure out a strategy entirely on accident. It happened while they were watching television. Crowley, as usual, had sprawled all across the couch and Aziraphale, and was leaning up against the angel as though he were a cushion. This put the back of Crowley's head directly in front of the lower part of Aziraphale's face. So, he just, kind of, rested his face against Crowley's hair. That was it, nothing to it. Crowley didn't even seem to notice. He had, in fact, noticed, but hegave no indication that he had.

After that, whenever they were on the couch together, or in bed together, it became Aziraphale's habit to rest his mouth against the nearest part of Crowley's body—usually the crown of his head or the back of a hand, occasionally a shoulder or arm, once, when Crowley was lounging especially creatively on the couch, his knee. This had been normal for quite a while when, one evening after the shop had closed and they were watching the one reality show they both liked—it was a dancing competition—with Crowley half in Aziraphale's lap, the angel's nose nuzzled into the demon's hair, Aziraphale had and immediately gave into the sudden temptation to give...just...a little...kiss.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened at all—the head judge commended one of the contestants on their improved chacha technique, a car honked outside—then Crowley turned very slowly, twisting to look at Aziraphale. “Did you just kiss me?”

“I...maybe.” Aziraphale stared directly ahead at the television.

“You  _did_!” Crowley crowed delightedly. “And you're blushing, you naughty little angel.” He planted an awfully dramatic smooch on Aziraphale's cheek. “There, now we're even.” He turned back to the programme, grinning triumphantly to himself.

Aziraphale turned several shades redder, but wrapped his arms around the demon, nuzzled his nose back into his hair, and kept watching their show.

 

And so things went, for the rest of eternity.


End file.
